


Overwrite

by MnemonicMadness



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Blood, Bloodplay, Clothed Sex, Consensual Kink, Dom Harold Finch, Established Relationship, Fluffier Than Expected, I Tried, Knifeplay, M/M, Safe Sane and Consensual, Scarification, Sexual Content, Sort Of, Sub John Reese, author is aro ace and doesn't really know how to smut, the graphic violence warning is probably a bit much but I'd rather be safe than sorry, this wasn't supposed to be this soft but these idiots got their feelings all over it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:53:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21823828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnemonicMadness/pseuds/MnemonicMadness
Summary: "I don’t mind the scars. The life I’ve lived, I’m surprised I haven’t gotten even more. But it's... I’m yours now. I go into the field for you, and whatever scars I get out there, they’re yours too. Guess I just wish sometimes I’d gotten them all for you. One way or another."Harold fulfils John's request to re-do a scar from before they met.
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 11
Kudos: 35
Collections: Flash Fuck: Round One (2019)





	Overwrite

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArgylePirateWD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/gifts).

> Ahem. Yet another probably mediocre attempt at smut? Oh well. I tried my best. Besides, the kink was fun to write, so, I hope it's not terrible? Enjoy!
> 
> Special thanks to Sky for being my last-minute beta and finding the myriad of typos I overlooked, you're amazing ♥♥♥

“Harold.” John’s voice calls him gently, full of selfless compassion.

It’s drawing close to half an hour now, the time Harold has had him laid out before him, ankles and wrists bound to the bed’s frame with smooth, black rope that makes John’s tanned skin look pale and downright delicate in comparison. He has little doubt that John could free himself of his restraints should he truly need to, though it would take him some time, after all, Harold has learned quite a few things in the time they’ve been together. Though he knows this fact to be irrelevant. John won’t so much as struggle if Harold doesn’t give his explicit permission, much less attempt to slip free.

One time, he’d bound John with narrow strips of wrapping tissue instead, the high quality kind of course, translucent and so fragile that even the gentlest tug would rip them. By the end of the evening, John’s muscles had held the faintest tremor from all the times Harold brought him to the edge and back before allowing him his release, and from the effort of holding himself so perfectly still throughout it all. The paper didn’t have so much as an extra crease, and Harold kissed and caressed and whispered his appreciation for John’s self-restraint into his skin until they both fell asleep.

“Harold. You don’t have to. If you don’t want to. It was just an idea.”

That is an understatement, and they’re both fully aware of it, even if there is not even the faintest hint of disappointment in John’s voice or eyes, only love and understanding. As every so often, Harold’s heart breaks for him just a little.

_It’s just… I think it’d feel right._ John had forced out with obvious difficulty in the depth of night, the room dark aside from the glow of a streetlight filtering in through the gap between curtains they’d both been too tired to close. _I don’t mind the scars. The life I’ve lived, I’m surprised I haven’t gotten even more. But it's... I’m yours now. I go into the field for you, and whatever scars I get out there, they’re yours too._ _Guess I just wish sometimes I’d gotten them all for you. One way or another._

He removes his hand from where it has been idly stroking John’s cock – slow, more to enjoy the texture of smooth, warm skin than anything else, and to highlight John’s nudity as Harold sits beside him, fully clothed – and nearly has to smile at the ripple of tension running through John, no other sign of protest at the lack of this contact, but Harold knows it’s a near thing.

“Do I really need to remind you that I do not appreciate dishonesty while we are intimate?”

“Sorry.” John says, unrepentant.

Harold gives him an unblinking, disapproving stare until he is satisfied that John is struggling not to squirm or avert his eyes, then gives into his urge to smile softly. He reaches back out to trail a fingertip downwards along the vein on the underside of John’s cock, down further, until he can toy with the base of the plug nestled between John’s cheeks until his partner does squirm, eyes closing in pleasure. This time, he does make a small, involuntary sounding noise of protest when Harold removes his hand once more, though it turns into something needy as soon as Harold’s lips touch his, kissing him in a way that’s almost too chaste, given that one of them is tied up in the nude and both are undeniably aroused.

“Make no mistake, I am grateful for your consideration, Mr Reese, but it’s unnecessary.” Harold tells him, gentle but firm, once he sits back up. He knows John needs these reminders sometimes, and it’s no hardship to give them. “You are mine.”

He pauses there until John nods his agreement, adoration shining in his eyes as he looks up at Harold, murmuring “Yours.”

“And I take care of my belongings, which includes doing my utmost to ensure that your needs are met, and I’m glad you trusted me enough to let me know that this is one of them. If I’d been unwilling to do this, I would have told you right away and we would have found a compromise, as we have in the past, so I assure you, this is quite alright with me.” Leaning down for another kiss, Harold runs a hand through salt-and-pepper hair before he continues, voice turned fondly teasing. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to consider my choices carefully. As we agreed, I’d like to take care of them one at a time, and choosing the first one is something deserving of thorough consideration, don’t you think?”

A soft groan replaces John’s answer as Harold gives his cock a few firmer strokes before letting his hands roam on the expanse of tanned skin, exploring as he has so many times before and hopes to do countless times more in the future, fingertips finding each blemish, each scar almost by muscle memory. Harold knows them as well as his own, from medical and government files, and others from having patched them up himself, though it’s all of the former he pays special attention to now as John holds himself still, anticipation tempered by self-restraint and patience and rewarded for it with occasional kisses.

And finally, Harold finds himself pausing, fingers resting on a scar high on John’s chest. A stab wound from a CIA mission in Beirut in 2008, deep and somewhat jagged, the blade having only just missed the subclavian artery. Merely a case-number and file, and a bad memory now, and yet, he can’t help but be acutely aware that this is one of the many injuries that could so easily have taken John from him before they’d ever even had the chance to meet.

“This one would do nicely, I believe.” he decides, watching the look in John’s eyes grow dazed with need as he nods, his eagerness displayed with rare openness.

“Harold, please...”

“Patience, John. I’d like to do this properly.”

The biting scent of rubbing alcohol fills the air as Harold uncaps the bottle and soaks a medical swab with it, diligently cleaning the area of the scar, then his own hands. Finally, he takes the scalpel from its case on the bedside table, disinfecting it, too.

His hands are perfectly still when he holds the blade just above John’s skin, surprised to find himself as calm in this as he by now is when stitching one of John’s less severe wounds. Astonished, when a shiver runs through John when he settles it against his skin, not cutting yet, just resting there. He has half a mind to ask John if he’s sure about this, though any worry lingering in his mind is assuaged when their eyes meet and John only calls his name, pleading and needy and voice gone even rougher with arousal, and Harold takes a calming breath and sinks the scalpel in.

Sharp as it is, the old, silvery scar tissue gives way as easily as warmed butter, parting slightly as Harold draws the blade through the damaged skin, careful not to press too deep, though deep enough to visibly scar anew on top of the old one. A small drop of blood wells up, and John’s soft moan is definitely not a sound of pain. Harold watches it for a moment, the glint of light reflected in the liquid, the bright red slowly trailing along John’s skin, even more appealing a contrast of colour than the dark rope. He allows it to run a little further, before giving into the surprising impulse to touch.

The pallor of his own hand makes the red seem even brighter, downright glowing when he settles his thumb on John’s skin, pressing lightly until he can feel the tension in John’s body. Until the trickle of blood reaches the indentation from the pressure and flows into it, surrounding the tip of Harold’s finger, running under his carefully manicured nail. Under his palm, he feels John hold his breath, feels the shuddering exhale of it when he moves his thumb in a caress, smearing the blood into a thin, almost translucent layer that begins to fill in thicker once he moves the scalpel further along the scar, sinks it in just that much deeper.

Almost too soon he has to put the blade aside, reaching for the antiseptic once more, smiling indulgently when John’s cock twitches even as he lets out a hiss at the sting, the one he’d normally not even appear to register when Harold patches him up after one of the more troublesome numbers. The clear liquid mingles with the blood, washing it away where Harold smeared it, running in pale droplets along John’s collarbone and down his side to leave reddish stains on the pristine white bed sheets. The cut continues to bleed, only now, instead of a single, orderly drop, the red slowly spreads out over the wet skin like watercolour. Harold watches it for a moment, until, with unexpected regret, he finds a gauze pad to dry the area with.

Butterfly bandages lie prepared on the bedside table beside the scalpel’s casing, ready for Harold to close the cut, and he can’t help but run a gentle caress over them once he’s finished, heedless of the blood still welling up where it hasn’t begun to clot just yet, staining Harold’s other fingertips. On a whim, he traces them over John’s lips, leaving a barely visible stain of red before kissing it away, sharing the faint metallic tang between them when John licks eagerly into Harold’s mouth.

* * *

The next day is a long one, and by the time John returns to the library, a few drops of red are blooming on his white shirt above the cut, immediately drawing Harold’s gaze. John gives him a sheepish smile and starts removing his shirt without having to be ordered to, though that does little to assuage Harold’s disapproval.

“Sorry.” he mutters, at least this time actually remorseful, when Harold tuts at him.

“Mr Reese, as I’d hoped you’d recall, I will only overwrite the next scar once this one is fully healed. Until then, I’d thank you to look after my work properly.”

When John leans in to steal a kiss, Harold doesn’t have the heart to deny him, and in any case, it wouldn’t do to play at being upset with John when he isn’t, at least not beyond the usual worry whenever he sees him hurt in any unintentional, unwanted way. He has been watching as always after all, and his partner did seem somewhat less reckless, if only in trying not to irritate the cut Harold gave him. Still, Harold is not above using any means available to him to convince John to keep himself safe.

“I’ll be more careful tomorrow.”

There’s nothing but sincerity in his eyes at that promise, and Harold gives him another quick kiss before setting to work re-bandaging the cut that will heal into a scar that is now his.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you liked it? Please leave a comment? Commends are antiseptic to my scrapes, the chocolate after the gross cough syrup, the ibuprofen to my migraines... I'm taking this simile too far, aren't I. XD


End file.
